Nothing, dear mother! You have your own home, dont you? Thats where you ought to stay. And only visit us if we invite you.
My mother lived in a quiet, charming English village, nestled beside a gentle river. Behind her little cottage stretched a band of woodland, where in the right season, one could gather basketfuls of blackberries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I had dashed through those familiar meadows with my wicker basket, reveling in the simple delights of nature.
I later married Henry, my classmate from school. His parents resided just down the lane from my mothers cottage, though their house stood on the opposite side. Unlike my mothers place, their garden didnt have an opening to the river or the woods. So whenever we visited from the city, we would inevitably stay with my mother.
But these visits had become fraught in recent years. Whether it was age, or perhaps envy for my husband, my mothers temperament had turned brittle. Our peaceful holidays began transforming into tense quarrels. Eventually, even when we stayed at Henrys parents house, mother found new reasons to quarrelthis time with Henrys parents, picking fights over trivial things. My mother-in-law lost her temper on one occasion and shouted so loudly, the whole lane must have heard their grievances echoing.
A month later, once all tempers had cooled, Henry and I had a sensible ideato build a home of our own. This way, thered be no more friction, and we could finally feel at peace when we came down to the village.
Securing the plot took months of negotiation, but at last, we managed. Henrys parents pitched in heartily, delighted to help. His father was always about, lending a hand at the build site.
Only my mother proved troublesome. She would arrive, offering endless advice, critiquing every detaila running commentary with no relief. In short, even during construction, she gave us precious little peace. Building our house felt more trial than triumph.
A year passed, and the house was complete. We thought life would breathe easierbut alas, no! Mother still refused to relinquish her visits, now accusing us of selfishness and warning she would stop accepting help. Never mind that Henry had always mowed her lawn, fixed her sagging shed roof, and managed countless little chores.
One day, my mother declared, Why do you keep coming here? Stay in your city home. And when you come, you just seem to show off your clever new house.
That was the final straw for Henrys patience. He approached her calmlythough there was something unyielding in his manner, enough to make mother edge towards the door.
What are you doing, Henry? she asked nervously.
Nothing, dear mother! You have your own home, so you ought to stay there. Dont come over unless we invite you, will you? Leave us in peace for a weekend now and then. If you need help, ring usif, heaven forbid, theres ever a fire, well come right away!
What on earth do you mean? What fire?
At that, mother nearly bolted for the door. I could hardly keep from laughing, watching her clutch her handbag and scurry down the front path to the gate.
When Henry had calmed down, he said, hands in the air, Well, perhaps ‘fire’ was a bit much.
No, just right, I replied.
We laughed together, recalling the look on my mothers face. From that day on, peace returned to our new home. Mother didnt drop in unannounced anymore; she let Henry help out, but never for more than a simple yes or no. I suspect shes still wary of the talk of fires.
